I Should Have Just Gotten the Penne

Venice's Grand Canal

It was day five of our trip to Italy. We were immersed in it fully by now, soaking in the Italian sun, people, culture, and, of course, the food, without a single thought of what the weather might be at home or what socks we forgot to pack. It was blissful. 

My husband Patrick and I arrived in Venice from Lake Como on a warm July evening in our rented black Fiat, eager to see what this historically rich, famously charming city was all about. We weren’t going to need a car to traverse the vast system of dark blue canals that Venice calls its roadways, so we said goodbye to the Fiat forever with plans to rent a different appropriately tiny vehicle after our stay in the Floating City.

After the water taxi spit us out onto the cobblestones, it didn’t take us long to realize the alleys in Venice are a perfect conundrum to a foreigner who squints hopefully up at the tiled signs on each corner, trying to match the alley’s name with the long Italian word on her paper hotel reservation. Finally, we found our quarters-- as usual, behind a nondescript door with a tiny sign, as if they didn’t need to publicize that their rooms are available to be rented. Just how we liked it. 

Key in doorknob, and ahhhh, we flopped onto the bed. After gazing forever out our screenless window, enjoying the sounds and smells of Venice with shutters open to a nearby square reminiscent of the 1600s, our next task, of course, was dinner. Patrick and I wandered and weaved and got ourselves lost in the maze of alleyways and canals, not minding, becoming numb to menu after menu with their similar columns of touristy Italian food. We knew that the names of restaurants with more authentic cuisine would be buried inside the recommendations of our guide book, but we would save those places for the next night. We would be simple tourists tonight, prioritizing the best view of a romantic canal over finding Italian food that wasn’t crafted blandly for the non-discerning American tourist to consume. 

We found a beautiful outdoor table right along a canal at a restaurant that had warm, red-checkered tablecloths and male waiters running around harried. Patrick and I are adaptable at foreign restaurants; we eat what they put on the table and assume if it isn’t placed in front of us, it’s not meant to be consumed. But that evening, with more tourists around us than at the Eiffel Tower on Valentine’s Day, other patrons were having trouble letting go of their perceptions of how an Italian meal should be presented. 

They wanted olive oil and parmesan cheese with their Italian bread, damnit, and their demands were heard.

Patrick and I watched with awkward embarrassment as the bustling waiters turned into frustrated men, leading one to finally lose his cool. With a thick accent, the server suddenly stopped in his tracks and announced loudly to the hungry tourists:

“We do not dip our bread in oil in Italy! So we will not be serving oil for you to dip your bread into! You use your bread to clean up your plate at the end, for the sauce!” The waiter, in black and white attire, adjusted the stained towel that hung over his shoulder. “Please, stop asking us for oil!” After he spoke, we could almost hear the footsteps of the pigeons scrounging for crumbs.

“Wow,” I smiled at Patrick. “Good to know.”

And then our beautiful food came, for anything appeared appetizing at that hour, after a long day of traveling. Indeed, it looked delicious, Patrick’s pasta bolognese and my spaghetti with red sauce and mussels. We ate leisurely, watching the gondolas float almost silently past us in the canal, with families, lovers, tourists eager to do what has become synonymous with a visit to this Renaissance city. It was too late for our gondola ride that night-- we would try tomorrow. We meandered back to our hotel after our meal and fell asleep almost instantly.

I wish I could have stayed asleep. In the middle of the night, I felt it-- that awful sensation of illness that creeps into your dreams and becomes part of the plot before it finally wakes you up and whispers that it’s real, not a dream, and you had better get up, fast. Every time I fall ill from food, my stomach manages to tell me what the culprit was, planting the taste squarely in my mouth of what I ate and how it’s now coming back to haunt me. 

This time, it was the mussels. 

I lay in bed awake for most of the night, except for the frequent trips to the bathroom, turning over and then over again, hoping that the twisting, wrenching feeling would go away by morning. But it never does. In the morning light, I told Patrick with disappointment about my overnight illness. 

“Did they harvest the mussels from right next to our table?” I said. “The canals are pretty to look at, but I’m sure any seafood that comes out of them is disgusting.” 

“No, I’m sure they came from the ocean,” Patrick said. 

“Not so sure.”

Having purged most of the mussels already, I got dressed and tried hard to be a person on our only full day in this culturally amorous city. We picked up some Gingerino for my stomach at a nearby market and found some pizza at a casual spot in the middle of the maze of alleyways. I managed to eat most of one slice, and then it wasn’t long before the walk back to our hotel became too much. I was blindly following Patrick, but he had gotten lost in the entanglement of brick walkways and concrete sidewalks, thinking he knew the way but being tricked repeatedly by the Venetian jungle. 

I couldn’t stand up straight and wait for him to figure out in which direction to walk, so I put my back against a brick wall and slowly lowered myself to the stones below, inches from the high heeled sandals and brown boat shoes that stepped indifferently past me, as if I was just another Roman beggar. 

We finally found our hotel. I went right to bed and stayed there, hoping to have some energy for dinner later. Patrick ventured out and saw St. Mark’s cathedral, just a few alleys away, taking pictures for me of relics that I’ll never be able to put into context. But now I know they’re there. 

Later that night, somehow, I mustered up the queasy energy for the nice dinner we’d planned. Putting mind over stomach, I pulled on my dress and stepped into the water ferry, as it continued its loop around the inside and outside edges of the city. I promptly fell asleep, waking to Patrick’s prodding: It was time to climb back onto land for our dinner across a large canal from where we were staying, with the cathedrals in the main squares silhouetted blackly against the red sky. Dinner was delicious, albeit simple; like a picky three-year-old, I had ordered plain pasta with butter. No need to risk it, right? 

Luck was with us after our meal: On our second and last night in Venice, we found a gondolier to take us on a ride at 10 p.m., right before he tied up his ropes and counted his cash for the night. He sang to us as he ducked under bridges in his classic black and white ensemble, the red bandana around his neck differentiating him from a common jailbird. 

I sighed with exhaustion as the boat floated stealthily along; it had been a wonderful night, all things considered. In the battle of Natalie versus the toxic mussels, I had reigned supreme.

Mussels Italiano

Ready in: 1 hour
Serves: 2
​
Ingredients:
1 ¼ lbs. mussels
2 tbsp. butter
1 ½ tbsp. onions, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
¼ tsp. oregano
1 small tomato, chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper (to taste)
¼ cup dry white wine

Directions:

Sort the mussels and discard any that are broken, chipped or otherwise damaged. Also discard any mussel that is open.
 
If you need to store the mussels for a while, cover with damp paper towels in a container that can be tightly closed, and store in the refrigerator.
 
Just before cooking, wash the mussels thoroughly in plenty of cold water.
 
Remove the beards by pulling out toward the hinged side of the mussel, using a small knife or dry towel.
 
Soak mussels for about 30 minutes in cold water containing a handful of salt and a handful of flour to remove any remaining sand.
 
Using a firm brush, remove any barnacles from the mussels before placing them into another bowl of clear water.
 
Melt butter in a medium-sized pot; sauté onions until they are transparent.
 
Add garlic; stir for a minute longer.
 
Add oregano, tomato, salt, and pepper, and cook until tomato is soft.
 
Add wine; bring to a slow boil.
 
Dry the mussels and place into the pot. Cover and steam for four minutes; remove the lid and stir.
 
Most of the mussels should now be open; replace the lid and steam for another two to four minutes.
 
Discard any mussels that don't open.
 
Divide into serving bowls and cover with broth.
 
Note: If you increase the serving size for this recipe, don't add too many mussels to the pot at once or stack the mussels on top of each other, as the added weight will make it difficult for the mussels to open.

Recipe adapted from Food.com